Night
by Baked The Author
Summary: "It's not easy being a hypersensitive Dark Elf in an apocalyptic wasteland, but by golly I'll do my best to bring light to this dying world! All I have to do is kill the Triad, defeat the Archdemon, and end It-That-Sleeps... all while staying a virgin. Easy... yeah..." AU, not for children
1. Chapter 1

**Night**

**Introduction has been edited, 3/26/2019:**

This story's tone is **not intended to be humorous or in any way sexy**, hence the horror/supernatural tags. While there will still be some humor thrown in at places, especially given the main character's situation, not to mention some sexy times **(w00t!)** once we get a little down the line, most of this story is intended to be quite terrifying, as a dystopian struggle for survival is intended to be.

There is much here to be disturbed by, but making a list would be far too time-consuming and redundant to the tone I wish to convey, so I shall suffice to say:

**If it _can_ be in an M-rated story, assume it _will_ be here**. **This story is** **not for children**.

I _cannot_ stress this enough, **I do NOT condone any of the despicable acts portrayed in this work of FICTION, and encourage all who read it to report any real-world instances of criminal depravity to the proper authorities. Consent is sexy, boys and girls; rape is not. Please be safe and responsible in all your social interactions.**

Also, **I disclaim any and all ownership in regards to Wildbow's _Worm_. Any characters or entities portrayed herein are not to be confused with their canon depictions, no matter the source material. This Fanfiction is not-for-profit and written on my own time for purely entertainment purposes.**

Without further ado, dear readers, I give you the first chapter of **Night**.

Enjoy.

~Baked, 2019

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**Night**

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_The smell of burning hair and flesh staining my nostrils. Ears ringing, the sight of Dad's head crushed against the roof of our overturned car, thick oily smoke tearing into my lungs. I may have been sobbing. Maybe I was screaming._

_ My skin blackens as the fire reaches me in earnest; my hair is seared away, the skin on my arms boiling as I try in vain to shield myself, keeping my eyes closed, screaming and sobbing and wishing someone will come and save me. But I'm burning, burning, burning._

_It all vanishes in a flash and a freight train-like impact against my back-_

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_ Musky smells and dirt. Bodily fluids. Anticipation. My body's hot, wanting, breasts heavy with milk and arousal. They approach once more, steps echoing through the dungeon to my pointed ears. Fewer this time. Disappointment. Not as many dicks cumming in me today…_

_ Scrape of metal against stone. I mewl, hopeful for more pleasure, for the chance to service more cocks, but unable to move. So weak these days. Maybe they'll move me?_

_ "Yeah. She's used up. Do it."_

_ "Pity. She was a good milk cow…"_

_ "Eh. We've got others." Steel against oiled leather, glint of silver in the dark._

_ I don't understand. I can still please them! I-_

_ -the cold metal rips through my throat, stealing my breath and what few thoughts I have away, and everything starts getting dark and quiet-_

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"GAH!" I bolt upright in the unnaturally comfortable Tinker-fabricated bed, gleaming purple irises in black sclera flicking about the dark bedroom. The scent of fire is faint in my nose, omnipresent in this place, along with the several-hours-old honey scent of my last rubbing session. I focus on my breathing, burying my face in my hands, shuddering at the vivid nightmares.

_'Just another nightmare, Taylia,'_ I tell myself, wrapping my arms around my torso beneath my breasts, trying not to panic or break down in grievous sobbing. _'You're not Taylor, alone and dying in the car. You're not Shalia, a burned-out whore dying in the dark. You are Taylia, the Dark Terror of the Rubblebelt. You are Shadow Stalker, a vigilante who goes where no one else can. You're in Brockton Bay. Even though it's the hemorrhoid-ridden asshole of the world, you're _alive_.'_

Panic successfully staved off for the moment, my eyes flick to the nightstand; 6:32 PM. May as well get up and begin my 'day'. There's a few places I haven't managed to map yet, and I could use more food. A trip to the market over in Clint Park was in order, then. At least no one bothered me on that side of the 'Belt, and maybe I'd be able to check in on Warp and Colin at the Lodge before taking a patrol through the Docks.

I stretch my arms over my head, pink lips opening in a mewling yawn as my muscles finish waking up, back popping and the pair of jugs on my front bouncing slightly, their weight needlessly reminding me of their presence.

Glaring at nothing, frustrated that very few places sell _comfortable_ bras in my size, I slip out of bed, the distant sound of a gunshot echoing to my sensitive ears, coming from further east and south. Another evening, another night in the Rubblebelt.

Another day in this life, with the memories of two people who died horribly haunting my thoughts.

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**1**

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**Rubble**

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Were I of a disposition to break into the morass-like field of composing literature and write on my brief life, I would be lost as to where to begin telling the tale of how I came to be here, how I came to exist.

Should I make an epitaph for Taylor Hebert, loving daughter, who grew up in Hatter Village, a small community in the Bay's north (and less crime-ridden) sections? Perhaps I'd wax poetic on her nonexistent luck with making friends, or her admiration for her parents, a union man and brilliant professor at the local college; mayhap I'd touch on her dream of becoming a musician, or her distant, faded and crushed desire to become a hero.

In all honesty, it might be better (easier) to speak of her world, the place I find myself inhabiting: a world of hate and violence, where civilization was slowly breaking down; where she'd needed to learn how to use a taser and pepper-spray at only seven years old so she'd have a defense against possible rape or abduction, very real possibilities when living in Brockton Bay. A world where local governments organized militias to help bolster the garrisoned armed forces, whose numbers dwindled further each day from death and desertion, and the 'heroes' were baggy-eyed, grim knights that put their lives and bodies on the line to keep the Glorious Triad, the Archdemon's horrific creations, and the abominations made by It-That-Sleeps away from the sane folk.

Or I could go on about the so-called Glorious Triad, a coalition or monopoly of gangs, though the nomenclature depends on who you ask. The Teeth, Archer's Bridge Merchants, Azn Bad Boys, and some of the Empire 88's remnants; I could speak, at length, of the Wrath of Lung, who made the Rubblebelt after Fleur of the Brockton Bay Brigade was killed, along with her family, by Iron Rain.

Visualizing these things was easy when you remember seeing pictures, leaked online, of the former leader of the Brigade, stripped naked and mutilated, hung by her neck from a streetlight in front of her burning home, her children and husband hanging next to her. When you remember the piercing, earth-shaking roar of Lung as the Wrath began.

Someone reading such a nonexistent story, for I am no scribe, would think that this was the moment where everything went wrong with the world, where Iron Rain made the mistake of killing the closest thing the Dragon of Kyushu had to a… not friend, but confidant? Respected rival? The truth, unfortunately, was crushed into dust as Lung's unquenchable rage tore through the Empire, killing Allfather, Iron Rain, and the young Kaiser, along with Miss Militia, Rime, Velocity, and thousands of civilians, leaving behind the Rubblebelt, a swath of shattered roads, buildings, and slagged, rusting metal, running from the edge of the Bay all the way to Mumfort Square at the edge of the city's suburbs, where Kaiser made his last stand, the act dividing Brockton Bay into three sections.

Northside, containing Downtown and its surrounding communities, was protected by the PRT, led by Field Commander Emily "Darkspawn's Bane" Piggot and Armsmaster, the Brigade (who were really the PRT Reserves) and the city Militia. A land of sunshine, rainbows, happiness, and cheap antidepressants, most people who lived there were just trying to get on with their lives and preserve the society that all-but collapsed after Black Tuesday, even though the world was burning around them.

The Rubblebelt. Purgatory. Mist shrouded the deeper chasms, spikes of slowly corroding metal pierced leaning buildings, slagged asphalt poured into sewers, gas pipes and natural fissures spewing toxic clouds into the air; no one truly knew how many people died when it was made, but there was at least a murder a day within that deadly, two-mile-wide wasteland. Nearly impossible to navigate on foot, only drug addicts, rapists, the homeless, the mad, and patrolling Parahumans of both the PRT and Triad went there.

And then there was the Docks. Hell, some called it. Some of its residents would call it Paradise. No law but Lung, Skidmark and The Butcher, the leaders of the Triad. Abandon all hope, indeed, for to walk its streets at night is to invite death, getting robbed, or raped, if you're lucky.

If you're not lucky, you'd be held down, injected with Venus, and… well, that's it for you.

It was also the only way to get safe passage to Boston, which was just another hellhole, The Butcher's stomping grounds, without braving the countryside and risking the Archdemon's Blight, or flying.

It wasn't that moment, when Lung tore the city in half, where all the light left the world and turned it into a microcosm of all that was wrong with Earth.

No, it most certainly wasn't. That happened half a decade earlier, in New York City… but even though I'm not Taylor Hebert, I remember her pain, her feelings of loss and existential dread, seeing what horrors Black Tuesday brought into the world, where the world's finest and brightest stars, its best heroes…

If there was any consolation for what happened on that most horrific day, it was that the Siberian hadn't survived, either. Cold comfort in the face of what the nation's greatest city became, and still was: a deathtrap, filled with genetic mutants and horrors unspeakable, walled off in every direction by the government, land, sea and air, and constantly patrolled by the PRT, the Dragon Knights, and government-sanctioned heroes.

Honestly, it wouldn't be proper to speak of Taylor herself. Of how she wept when the university her mother worked at was attacked by the Teeth, her mother never coming home. Of her father's resultant wandering eye and alcoholism, which made fraught young teenager anxious beyond reckoning.

Or how she was relieved, in the end, that she'd never been violated or had drugs forced on her, that she was dying pure.

Well, it was still a frightening experience. Dying in a freeway pileup caused by one of Squealer's drug-fueled rampages, body ripped to shreds by the gas tanker behind her father's truck exploding… not exactly the most glorious of ends.

But then again, neither was the way Shalia of Quan met her end. Her story wasn't much longer than Taylor's, as she'd only been four years older than the fifteen-year-old human when her throat was slit by her owners.

At that point, though, Shalia had been all but dead for two years, having been used in every way imaginable by the very enemies she'd fought against. Unlike Taylor, her story is closer to my own heart, for I share her appearance and physiology: that of the Dark Elves, the nocturnal apex predators of the forests.

Her life hadn't started too horribly: she'd been born in the deep, dark forests of Quan, ancestral home of the Dark Elves. From the day she could stand Shalia was trained in the art of combat, as were all Dark Elf young; her childhood was tough, but Shalia was a bright girl, a prodigy of her people, and learned quickly so as to aid her kinsmen in battle against Vor, the kingdom of demons that sought to conquer the entire world. By the time she was fourteen, she'd learned all her teachers could impart, from armor creation and upkeep to magic to swordplay to CQC, and struck out on her own, desiring to end the wars that plagued the land.

For two years Shalia was successful in her mission, slaying any of the monsters bred by Vor she came across; when she was only fifteen she defeated an entire company of men and demons single-handedly, ahead of an allied army that had been intent on assisting her. Shalia, the Whirlwind of Hope they called her, and it seemed, for a few moments, that things might get better, that her people would not need fear death and enslavement again. That peace might be close…

And then Vor loosed a vast army upon Shalia, and the friends that she'd made while adventuring, and the allied army that followed in their wake. Amidst that plain of blood and death, watching all the bonds she'd made burn away in demon's flame, the Dark Elf champion tried to avenge their deaths, to win the day as she'd done so many times.

But Vor had its own champion, a greater demon of terrible power, who shattered her shield, snapped her sword, and, in front of her laughing and jeering enemies, tore away her armor and raped her over her precious friend's corpses, her virginal blood spilled uncaringly into the dark mire as the army that followed her withered and perished.

She'd wished for death, there in that blood-soaked hell, but it was only the beginning of Shalia's torment. Once the demon's champion was finished ravaging her, she was thrown to the enemy army as a plaything, with only the condition that she not be killed.

Seven thousand demons gang-raped her for six days and nights, drugging her with aphrodisiacs, humiliating her, parading Shalia before her captured comrades, forcing her to orgasm and beg for more sex in exchange for her allies' lives, only to watch, lost in tantric bliss and despair as Vor's champion bred her fertile body, the demons slaughtered the men and took the women as playthings; then she'd been brought to a camp for others of her kind, where Dark Elves were kept as breeding stock, for their bodies' inherent magic allowed them to have children with any other race.

They cut off her feet when she made one final attempt to flee, after birthing her captor's child, and made her breed with more monsters, creatures that laid eggs in her guts or filled her womb with supernatural magic that ensured she'd be a perfect incubator for their young.

After months of this, being raped and violated and used as an incubator and milk maid, Shalia steadily saw more and more women, some of whom she knew from her own tribe, being brought to the camp to be trained. By then, it was too late for her; the news that Vor had won, had succeeded in conquering all the lands, finally broke her resolve.

Shalia resigned herself to being a public toilet for demons and ruffians, and so it was, for the rest of her short life. She enjoyed her new job, and was good at it, so much that every man and demon that came to the camp was encouraged to fuck her loose, slutty pussy. Addicted, Shalia's awareness of the world dwindled until all that was left of the warrior Elf was her name; in her place was an absolute slut, who crawled around on her hands and knees, constantly begging for sex. Even her fellow Dark Elves, imprisoned and pressed into whoring with her, looked down on Shalia with scorn and disgust, and her owners laughed and made her drink their piss instead of water, and Shalia loved it all.

Two years of degradation, breeding and whoring later, she died to a knife in the dark; any Dark Elf had excellent natural regenerative abilities, but this was conditional on their keeping themselves fit and healthy. Without her feet, without any will of her own, and without a means of exercising beyond fucking as many males as possible, Shalia's physical abilities failed, and she died, alone in the dark.

But it wasn't the end. Not for either of them.

Even now, nearly four months after awakening in a Tinker-fabricated apartment building that was never occupied, alone, nude and no longer a flighty human teenager or of a mind to be an unthinking, shameful cum dumpster, I don't know how such a thing could come to pass, two minds joined as one in a new body, the body of a Dark Elf. I only have what I know for sure, and it is enough to go on.

I have Taylor's stubbornness and decisive nature, and her knowledge of this mad, dying world; were it not for Taylor, I wouldn't be able to _read_, let alone survive as long as I have. She wasn't very physically fit, but she was tall for a human, so I inherited her height along with her wide mouth and expressive eyes, and, while my hair was the same white-blonde of nearly all Dark Elves, it came down about my shoulders in a curtain of soft, gorgeous ringlets, much like Taylor's once did.

From Shalia I received all the knowledge she'd learned throughout her brief life, from her traditional Dark Elf training in combat and magic, as well as the experience she'd gained through countless fights… to the… ahem, _less desirable_ memories of being a sex slave…

Combined, these two people as one made me, Taylia, supposedly the only Dark Elf on Earth, and, probably, one of the strongest 'Parahumans' to ever live.

With my Elven physiology, I was much faster than a human, strong enough to pick up a rusted Honda Civic and chuck it half a football field, I could see perfectly in the dark (though the sunlight hurt my eyes), and could both hear and smell everything in a one-hundred-and-fifty-yard radius if I focused; my combat instincts were refined to the point where not even a PRT Field Agent could take me in a straight fight, not even Oni Lee or Kemuri could sneak up on me. I'd made a collapsible longbow, magical arrows, rapier, claymore, kite shield, and a new set of armor in less than two months, all from memory.

Speaking of memories, Taylor's were a boon; she was possessed of the natural talent of selective eidetic memory, allowing her (and me, by esoteric extension) to remember and examine in detail any moment of her life beyond the age of two; with this, re-learning Shalia's Dark Elf training was ridiculously easy, a treasure worth a mountain of gold, especially in the dire and unusual situation I've found myself in.

She must have developed superpowers at some point, or I did before waking up here in my apartment; I say this because I found myself with a new quirk to my abilities: I could learn anything to proficiency just by reading about it, or observing the action personally. The memories I had of this world told me I was a Trump, or maybe Trump/Thinker, because of this talent, or power, or whatever. It's more of a curse than anything, really.

Mainly because, due to Shalia's memories, I have it in me to become nothing short of a goddess in the bedroom, or wherever I wish to ply such torrid talents; she was the perfect slut, a shameless meat toilet, would happily fuck anyone (or any_thing_) in public, and I knew every minute detail of her whorish exploits. In fact, the first two months after waking up were, primarily, spent suppressing the nigh-crippling urge to find a male and mate with him; but suppress them I did, focusing on remembering her combat and magical training and experience in preparation for the outside world.

Unfortunately, I now have an encyclopedic knowledge of the pleasures of flesh, know _exactly_ how to perform any sexual act one could imagine, no matter how lewd or shameful, and I am a _virgin_.

Yes, I, personally, have never felt the touch of a man; I am perfectly pure in my chastity, my hymen unbroken, my depths unexplored by the hands and appendages of others, and I, honestly, have no _personal _desire to experience sexual intercourse. The memories are bad enough, and, were I to engage in such activities, I seriously doubt I'd be able to keep myself from falling back into Shalia's wanton ways, from becoming a giggling, shameless, loose whore, spreading my legs to the entire world with a happy, lust-filled grin.

My Dark Elf body's natural sensitivity to its surroundings, evolved from millennia of living in a dark, hostile environment, doesn't help my self-imposed vow of chastity where others are concerned; 'sensitive' doesn't quite express just how sharp my senses are, from touch to smell to taste to hearing to sight, but it is a sufficient enough word for the occasions I find myself in.

Such as being out on my bi-nightly patrol of the Docks and coming across a whore or Venus-touched sucking off or fucking a John in Blood Lane or one of the other myriad ruins on the 'Belt, the scent of sexual fluids drawing me like a moth to flame and arousing me in seconds, the sound of rapid breathing and vapid, mewling voices, the wet slapping of thrusting, sweaty hips raising the heat in my body, vividly stark memories flicking across my mind, and if I see the action in question…

It actually somewhat tempers the heat of arousal flowing through every muscle and sinew, my analytical mind critiquing a whore's technique in minute detail, using Shalia's experiences as a template; not many of them are all that good at their jobs, and the ones that are usually need help with their appearance and/or sales pitch. As a matter of fact, only my self-imposed duty to be… not a heroine, but a hunter of despicable monsters, a dark avenger of the ruin Taylor's city has become… it is only that duty I have consigned myself to that keeps me from going up to those whores and giving them tips… or, god forbid, a _demonstration_.

The very idea is hideously repugnant and disgusting to the part of me that was Taylor, the side of my personality I do my best to uplift; truth be told, Shalia was always disgusted with her own actions, but it wasn't like she had a _choice_.

All of it was moot, anyway; I was neither Taylor nor Shalia, as my memories of both say that they died, totally and completely. I am not them. I am myself.

I am Taylia, a Dark Elf with the memories and abilities of two people who were dealt a shitty hand in life, who died ignoble deaths, who were given a second chance, through me, the redeemer of their broken destinies. But, at the end of the day I am my own person, neither Shalia nor Taylor, and though I am guided and influenced by these people's memories, I will walk my own path; I will not cower in the gleaming, sterile light of 'civilization', nor will I sink to the depths of depravity prevalent in the Docks.

I will be a Champion, as Shalia was before she fell. A Champion for Earth, a bright star in the gathering dark that chokes this world.

But why? Why Taylor and Shalia, two nobodies, rather than the billions who have already perished in the wake of the Triad, or the Blight, or It-That-Sleeps?

I may never find out. Maybe it is part of the Simurgh's Echo, or some game of It-That-Sleeps. Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

I have a chance to save the world, succeeding where Shalia failed, to do right by poor Taylor and her family. Like hell I'll waste it, this chance to make things right! I'll do my best to help clean up my poor, broken city, and, once Lung's head is on a spike, The Butcher sunk to the ocean floor, and Skidmark drawn and quartered in public, I'll form a party of other brave and daring souls and find the Archdemon, and slay the beast once and for all!

And maybe, just _maybe_, we'll be able to fell It-That-Sleeps, and free humanity from this rotting existence.

But that is long from now, and not what I must focus on.

The Bay must be first, or all else is lost.

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1

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Cold water splashes against my face, the act of rubbing the cool liquid into my tired eyes waking me further, _'I have _got_ to cut some time off my rubbing schedule! _One_ hour, Taylia, not _three_! That's not responsible behavior!'_

Sufficiently awakened and mentally chastened, my 'morning' business taken care of, I stare into the bathroom mirror.

Slight, almost invisible bags mar my glossy chocolate-brown skin beneath black sclera and lovely purple irises, light pink lips frowning; baring my teeth, with their longer-than-human canines, I find them white as ever. Opening my mouth, I stick out my dark, pink tongue, its pointed tip nearly reaching my cute, rounded chin, and check my throat for any inflammation or signs of Blight. Turning my white-maned head side to side, I check my knife-like ears, making sure both are clean and unblemished.

My appearance was the most jarring thing I encountered, two months ago; I looked nothing like either of the people I'd been. Shalia was of a lighter skin tone than me, and Taylor was human; that is, nothing like a Dark Elf.

Leaning away from the mirror, I raise a thin white brow and look down at my cleavage, boobs nearly pouring out of the only tank top I could find in this building that 'fit'. E-cups on a deceptively soft, six-one frame, my hourglass body clad only in that top and a pair of plain boyshorts that only half fit; hell, the tank top only covered me to about an inch over my belly button, which was nearly invisible against my toned abs, and the boyshorts didn't even reach my waist, only half covering my rounded butt. My thighs were thick, both with muscle and the thick layer of skin that hid said muscle, as were my calves, and my feet were strong yet petite. I had pretty feet, and a gorgeous body, both of which Taylor wished for ever and anon…

_'And these fucking boulders keep getting the way of me seeing my pretty toes,'_ think I with pursed lips, poking the side of my right boob, eliciting a slight twitch of pleasure through the affected mass of mammary flesh; I sigh, exasperated, _'I can't believe I'm thinking this, but I think I'd prefer Taylor's body.'_ No matter how inefficient the human's body was, at least _she_ could see her feet without crouching and crushing her boobs against her thighs.

Sighing again, because there was no use crying about it, I head into my main room/kitchen bar; opening the bedroom door on my right as I leave the bathroom, I glance at the linen closet/washer/dryer assembly, making sure the towels I used last 'night' will clean themselves in good order while I get ready for my 'day', no longer wondering at the excess that is Tinker-fabrication.

Every apartment was like this, here in the building I woke in three months and change ago, one of a dozen Tinker-fabricated apartment complexes, designed as shelters against the horrors that roam the world. Only four survived Lung's Wrath, but mine was the only one anyone could access, due to my finding of the master key-ring and leaving the building a little over a month ago, forced out by a desire for action, food that wasn't freeze dried or cup ramen, and exploring my surroundings.

The reason they couldn't be accessed was easy: each of the buildings were designed with "Manton-Effect Fields" in their walls, which nullify Parahuman abilities if they come under attack. Sure, they could be overwhelmed, and the ones that fell _were_ overcome by Lung and Kaiser's thrashing, but by the time they got here, the former neighborhood of Mumfort Square, the fight was winding down.

Not that this area doesn't have its risks: aside from natural gas clouds hugging some of the trenches, forests of steadily rusting blades that could collapse at any moment, pitfalls into the unknown, falling rubble, roving Triad foragers (to supply Squealer and Voltron, their main Tinkers), and Bitch occasionally patrolling up this way with her Pack, there was one other reason no one came this way in either direction.

Me.

Off with the tank top and shorts, and on with the dark purple Kevlar body glove I usually wear while out; of course, I put a thick pad in the groin and _carefully_ bind my breasts, so as to keep sensual stimulation to a minimum. I'll be jumping around a lot and-

"Oooh~!" I mewl involuntarily, face burning, as I pull the binding tight around my chest, the fabric of the pad rubbing against my nipples and slightly setting me off.

-there's only a few ways I can mitigate the hypersensitivity of my person. Not having my tits bouncing around with abandon or having my body glove soaked in juices are only two of the ways in which I can limit my arousal while on patrol.

Zipping up the back of the sleeveless body glove, which while skin-tight covers my skin to mid-thigh, I walk back out of my room; making for the kitchen with breakfast on my mind, I say aloud, "TV on, news."

The in-wall flatscreen flicks on and, as I collect a cup of instant ramen ('_Only five left. Gotta go shopping soon, or have Warp do it for me…'_), a newscaster's tinny, impersonal voice relates what's happened since I fell asleep earlier this morning.

_"…along the Rubblebelt. The Barnes Militia, in an act of daring bravery, fired on the invaders, sending them fleeing back into their barbaric holes. The Barnes Militia was formed after its founder, Allen Barnes, had his daughter taken by the Triad, two years ago."_

I pull the string on the cup, steam curling out of the holes I've poked in the paper top as hot water fills it, thinking with a snarl, _'So some people tried to come over, probably trying to escape hell, and the Militia shot at them. Man, your cruelty knows no bounds.'_

_"The newest villain in the 'Belt, Shadow Stalker-"_

"FRIGGIN _WHAT?!"_ Villain?! I'm not a villain!

"_-is believed to be the cause of this latest attempts by the Triad to send more of their riffraff to invade and pollute our beautiful city. Shadow Stalker, as we have stated before, is a cold-hearted murderer, and has attacked both Militia and Triad personnel in the past. Current PRT Thinker analysis shows that the Triad is still trying to find Stalker, and has been regularly sending invaders through the 'Belt in an attempt to locate and recruit the rogue villain. PRT Commander Piggot declined to comment on rumors that PRT-sponsored Parahumans are working with Shadow Stalker while on patrol. Civilians are advised to stay indoors after curfew, and that Stalker is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. In other news-"_

Fucking… Stop a Militia bastard from raping some girl in an alleyway and the hypocrites demonize you. At least the PRT can be trusted not to reveal my location, but for how much longer? The pressure that'll be put on them from Northside's government…

I snarl, "TV, off!" focus on my ramen-

"Yah! Ow! Hot!"

-and then my healing magic, before making my way past the TV and the couch for where the window would be, if the thick metal blast shields that covered the red-brick building's exterior weren't lowered, and my personal armory.

A mannequin held my main costume: a cuirass that provided… _decent_ coverage (and necessitated the body glove to hide my admittedly impressive cleavage), which protected my groin, stomach, spine and most of my breasts from damage; a gorget with a specially enchanted piece of fabric that covered my face up to the bridge of my nose and allowed me to breathe fresh air in the polluted 'Belt; clawed, elbow-length gauntlets; knee-high heeled boots… and by heeled, I mean _armored pumps_ that protected my legs to just above the knee.

It was all black enameled with purple trim, no superfluous decorations, and, if it weren't for my body glove and cloak, would make me look like some kind of armored stripper.

On the bright side, I remind myself grumpily while attaching the gorget, the whole ensemble was specifically designed, from the smelting of the metal to cooling in water, as the perfect armor to fight monsters in; it was rust-proof, _nearly_ bulletproof (anti-armor rounds would pierce it easily, but short of that…) waterproof, fireproof, and could only be damaged by the very strongest of foes. Of my potential enemies in the Docks, only The Butcher and Lung had the physical strength and ability to overcome my armor's durability, and, well, I'd probably not face either for some time yet. I hadn't _really_ stirred up as much trouble as the newscaster said.

A few gangbangers, a tussle with Kemuri, Voltron and Oni Lee here and there, and stopping a Militia grunt from violating a girl who kept screaming '_No!_'. That was the summation of what I'd done over the past month and two weeks, and those Northside pigeons make their people think me some monster.

Oh, that makes me so _angry,_ so much I turn to the north of my apartment and scream, "_I'm not Skidmark, you hypocritical assholes!"_ it's enough to bring a few tears to my eyes; I'm just trying to help out, the only way I can! And-and they warn their children away from me! My god, I'm so angry I just _swore!_

I shake myself out of the self-depreciating thoughts; distraction leads to mistakes, which leads to…

_"AAAAAHHHH! NO! G-GET IT OUT! NGH~AHH! STOP!"_

_"**AH, A VIRGIN ELF! PERFECT!**"_

…suffering.

Looking over my weapons, I select the rapier, a bandolier of throwing knives, my bow and silver arrows; I glance at the claymore before shaking my head. I've promised myself (and Colin) not to bring that out unless a confrontation with Lung, Skidmark or Butcher was inevitable; besides, _'I'm good enough with the rapier, especially after sparring with Colin at the Lodge.'_ As a matter of fact…

_'Well, it doesn't look like I'll be able to go shopping tonight, unless I want to get shot at by the Militia…'_ tying my hair up into a bun, I pull the facemask on and put on the domino mask the PRT Tinker gave me, which emphasized the purple glow of my eyes and pinned my ears down to reduce wind resistance, nearly completing my transformation from Taylia to Shadow Stalker, _'Hopefully Dragon brought some supplies from Newhaven today, or maybe Warp will be there; I'll be able to bribe her into doing a food run for me… while taking out my frustrations on some Merchants.'_

Happy with this itinerary for my evening, I open the cabinet over the fridge and take out a Tupperware container, removing two small baggies full of silver-white rocks. From the hall closet, next to my apartment's main door, I grab my belt with its long daggers and slip the baggies into a pouch.

Lastly, I take one of the hooded dark grey cloaks hanging in the closet and whirl it over my shoulders, hooking the hood to the gorget's facemask, along with looping some straps through my armor at the back and beltline, to keep the cloak from flying all over the place while moving.

I'm ready.

I take one last look around my apartment, slip out into the hallway, and lock the door before making for the roof access, fast as a cheetah, silent as a swooping owl.

Another night in Purgatory awaits.

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1

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Distant gunfire to my right, the sounds of an outdoor concert far away to my left… and the 'Belt in front of me.

To human eyes, it must look like quite the dark and forbidding place, all the myriad spikes of corroding steel glittering in the light of sporadic fires, searchlights on both sides of this wasted divide scanning the ruins for threats, and the occasional flash of gunfire, interspersed with poisonous fog and the deep shadows of night hugging the trenches that wind their way through the place, the bright lights of Downtown gleaming in Northside promising an empty existence in this struggling world, the red glow of Blood Lane and the Red Light District on the Dock's side a sinister backdrop to this ruin.

To _me_, the darkness is nonexistent, all the 'Belt lit up in my eyes as easily as daytime; I see people moving along the barricades in Northside, Militia men ensuring the perimeter stays secure. Some are family men, trying to keep their families safe; most, though… well, I'll be keeping well clear after that news report, just in case. I don't want to find out just how bulletproof my armor is.

In the Docks, figures move in the shadowed windows of cracked, partially ruined buildings, drug-addled eyes looking wildly into the dark 'Belt, dirty hands clutching equally dirty weapons. In an alleyway, a girl, who can't be older than 13, sucks off a man old enough to be her father, letting his ejaculate splatter across her face with a happy smile; her John tosses a ten on her cum-speckled visage, and she thanks him as he saunters uncaringly away. As she rises, licking up the man's seed greedily, I see a 'V' branded into her left buttock, and the scene makes more sense.

Not that it didn't already; I knew what that girl felt like, what living like that was like.

But there was no use dwelling on it. I turned my gaze east, marking my planned path through the ruins. One of Bitch's monster dogs howls in the distance, answered by other howls along the 'Belt. The time on my domino mask's HUD says 7:00PM.

I cast an invisibility spell, make sure the roof door is securely locked, dart across the roof to the east-northeast edge, and kick off hard.

_'It's not flying,'_ I muse, humming to myself as I use the towers of metal and broken buildings as stepping stones, dodging searchlights and mortar fire, _'But I have to say, having a Brute/Mover rating is a good second.' _That, and flying capes don't last long here, mostly due to Squealer's automated AA batteries. I only knew two, Sparta (Victoria) and Aegis (Carlos), and both knew better than to fly too high in the 'Belt.

A mortar round blasts a hole a few hundred feet to my right, hitting nothing but sending a few suicidal hobos running for a nearby basement; stupid Militia, wasting ammo on the 'Belt when there's a Triad sniper setting up in a window half a mile away.

If it wouldn't dispel my invisibility and leave me out in the open for _both_ sides to shoot at, I'd stop and take him out; besides, the late November night was young, breezy and clear. If someone else doesn't get the greasy little fucker, I'll take him out after getting to cover.

Three leaps later, the Lodge appears in my vision; it used to be a parking garage and some sort of multi-story business complex. Now it was a shattered, apparently burned-out husk, the windows of the complex haloed with soot from the fire that gutted the place, the top two levels of the garage fallen and strewn about the landscape in equal measure, rusting cars littering the relatively intact layers.

I don't hesitate to kick off a bent steel girder and dart into the place at speed, moving swiftly behind a thick concrete pillar right as a cheer comes from the Docks side and bullets whine all over the 'Belt, a few taking chunks out of the concrete around me or dinging off cars.

_'Just another night at the office,'_ I think in dark humor, dispelling my invisibility and nocking an arrow, looking for anyone stupid enough to stick their neck out – ah, and there's Mr. Sniper, aiming at one of the Militia guard towers.

My vision narrows down the shaft, I hold my breath, calculate the shot using the targeting reticle on the HUD, wait for the wind to calm… complete the draw…

_Hiss!_

The sniper falls back from the window, my arrow buried in his skull, dead before he hits the ground.

Feeling the ethereal 'ribbon' that connects my magic to each of the twenty-five arrows I made, I focus on the one I just shot, snap my fingers –

And the quiver on my hip jostles slightly, the arrow returned, clean and ready for another use.

I don't feel anything for killing the man, not after seeing what sick activities he and his brethren partake in. Turning one of the dials on my bow's grip with a soft _click_, the arms snap together silently; as I holster it, I say just loud enough to hear over the continuing sounds of strife and bullets whining around us, "Evening, Aegis."

A chuckle precludes the blood-red armored cape deactivating his active camo, appearing in midair two pillars away, visible mouth smirking beneath his matte black visor, "Nice shot, Stalker. What was that, three quarters of a mile, into a five MPH wind?"

Tall, muscular, observant, and well-mannered… let's just say that Carlos here pushes quite a few of my buttons; even so, I much prefer to have friends and allies than indulge in my… mental… well, mental _and_ physical…

Know what? I don't want to fuck him. I mean, I _do_, but I need to have more control of myself, otherwise I might rip off his armor, slam his muscly, tall body to the ground and –

Face heating, I do my best to stay professional and ignore the fantasies, "More like a full mile, and the wind was mostly dead when I shot," I turn away from the Docks, slinking in his direction while continuing the commentary, "Between the humidity coming off the Bay and my skill, the air will practically _caress_ my arrows. At this range, clear line of sight and a calm night like this," I carefully narrow my eyes, hopefully giving the impression of a mischievous smirk, "there's no way I'll miss."

Aegis chuckled, moving to accompany me to my destination, the entrance to the Lodge proper, "I believe you, but please do me a favor and don't say 'caress' around Timesnatch or Warp… unless you like being teased with endless innuendo." I scoff, even as my blush flares beneath the facemask, which makes the rather attractive PRT cape give off another deep chuckle, to my annoyance; happily, or _un_happily given the connotations, he changed the subject, "Armsmaster's here, in case you were wondering; says he wants to talk to you."

I sigh as we reach the doorway; standing up in the alcove, I take my hand off the dagger on my hip after checking the area and look up at the cape, who unlocks the Lodge's door. I ask tightly, "I'm guessing everyone's heard what the Militia's saying about me?"

He nods, lips pursed as he looks at me from his hover, "Yeah… and we all think it's absolute bullshit, Stalker. Especially Colin," Carlos hesitates, but ends up smiling a little, "Scuttlebutt says the Commander ripped into Barnes for labeling you a villain without her say-so, but, well," he shrugged, "can't do anything about it now but keep your nose clean and hope things get better."

Folding my arms as I look at him, I tilt my head to one side and drawl, "Colin's _still_ catching flak for killing Night and Fog last summer," shaking my head, I turn to the door and sigh, "So forgive me if I doubt Barnes forgiving me for castrating one of his precious Militia with an arrow anytime soon." I reach for the handle –

A hand lands on my shoulder, making me stiffen for… _multiple_ reasons; Carlos whispers, voice sure and encouraging, "Hey. I don't blame you, and neither does anyone here. Fucking _pendejo _deserved what he got. Don't let that tight-ass Barnes get to you, Taylia, alright?"

Shrugging my shoulder to remove his hand, but not so hard as to be dismissive, I whisper back, "I won't… thanks, Carlos. I'll, uh, just head in." So much to do tonight, and spending it blushing in Aegis' presence will only tempt me.

To say nothing of the fact that, when he touched me, I had a_ mini_ _orgasm_. Stupid sensitive Dark Elf physiology!

"Stay safe," he says with an easy nod, disappearing from the visible spectrum a moment later; I can still smell him, so live and _male_, as he shoots out of the garage and into the deep night, no doubt to meet up with Sparta so they can go thrash some ABB twits.

Shutting and locking the door behind me, I groan to myself; stupid, inconvenient nymphomania, making my whole body tingle like this! Luckily the pad pressed against my groin is not only there to soak up any arousal I may discharge, it nullifies the scent as well. Three cheers for Tinker-fab products, yayyy…

Deciding to walk it off, I follow the red Christmas lights into the depths of the building and the Lodge, trying to think of a plan to boost my reputation back into the positive and incredibly anxious about the coming conversation with my favorite sparring partner… and the closest thing I have to a father figure in this horrible, desolate place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Night 2**

**Night**

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Once, there were Unwritten Rules that all Parahumans abided by. So Taylor's memories reported, anyway. The scrawny geek was obsessed with capes… until Black Tuesday anyway. After that, she was too frightened to do anything but go through the motions of life, the flighty beanpole.

Introduced by Marquis, the Rules were mostly a set of guidelines that kept the world from becoming a free-for-all between Parahumans; even after the powerful Shaker turned away from villainy and founded Newhaven, a community for Endbringer refugees (at first), in 1996, most everyone followed the rules he set.

Such was the man's influence in the cape community that, while society remained unmolested, the Rules were only broken by the real monsters out there, like the Slaughterhouse 9 and the Triad.

After Black Tuesday, after Glaistig Uaine, Crawler, Chevalier and Dragon killed the Three Endbringers at the Panama Canal six months later, after the rise of It-That-Sleeps three years later, as the world slowly burned and went mad in equal measure, the Unwritten Rules were cast to the wayside, first by the villains, then the heroes.

The Protectorate collapsed after both Houston and Chicago were annihilated by the Archdemon within a week of each other, only two months after Black Tuesday, their capes absorbed into the PRT forces as the Darkspawn multiplied and spread uncontrollably, the act militarizing what heroes remained, giving them the tools and skills to prevent a total Apocalypse.

Secret identities were for the public only, so that what Parahumans who had families wouldn't have their houses burned or vandalized by mobs that blamed capes for everything going to literal Hell; between individual capes, it was considered protocol to unmask before allies, though this was more to prove that the supplicant capes weren't Darkspawn infiltrators or abominations of It-That-Sleeps.

The Brockton Bay Brigade, under Fleur, took it one step further and unmasked totally, to both the PRT and public, wanting to be an example of uprightness and virtue in this dying world.

It almost worked, too. Then that mad bitch Iron Rain killed her out of spite, setting off the domino effect that put Taylor's city in its current situation.

Maybe things would've gone differently, if they'd been able to cast aside their differences and work toward killing off what was left of Nilbog's creations instead of playing Cops and Robbers with reality-warping abilities.

But if wishes were pigeons… actually, pigeons were nearly extinct, almost wiped out by the Blight before Panacea could disperse the vaccine into the atmosphere a year ago. _'Hm. I suppose we'll have to find a new analogy…'_

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**2**

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**Walkabout**

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It was with these musings on my mind that I arrived in the basement of this ruined building, where what passed for the Protectorate had their forward command post.

For those who lived and worked down here, it was called the Hunting Lodge, or just the Lodge. From here, PRT and Parahuman operations across the Rubblebelt and Docks were monitored and managed by two of the greatest Tinkers to ever live: Armsmaster and Dragon.

Situated roughly in the middle of the 'Belt, slightly closer to Northside than the Docks, the Lodge wasn't actually founded by the PRT; the first resident was Bitch, a supposed Case 53 (few saw her, as she's both private and _very_ sneaky, but there were rumors…) who'd shown up in Brockton one day with a family of wolves and just… started squatting here, in the middle of the freaking 'Belt, attacking anyone who tried to oust her, but otherwise not trying to raid or pillage.

At least, not until Dragon held a conversation with the feral beastmaster; no-one but Colin and the Field Commander knew the details of the agreement, other than Dragon and Bitch of course, but the berserker girl hadn't tried to attack anyone from Northside since.

Unless they tried to attack her first, of course. It was common sense that no one messed with Bitch, unless you wanted to get ripped apart and eaten… by her hounds, if you were lucky; if unlucky, you'd get ripped apart and eaten by _Bitch_.

As a result, public opinion put her just above Squealer and beneath Voltron in approval; personally, I just think alcohol should be outlawed again, like the fallen American government did back in the early 1900's.

Why the Militia thought they were hot stuff compared to the wild beast-girl who slaughtered her way out of the Darkspawn-ridden Finger Lakes Region with only twenty wolves and a machete, and did so naked as the day she was born… yeah, just _stupid_. And the Militia morons still shoot mortars at her and her hounds, just because some of their drunkard number tried to drag her away for 'reeducation', as the news called it.

I'm sure said drunkards were rather stupefied by her response, right before they were shredded by a pack of monstrously-sized, bulletproof wolves.

Maybe that's why the PRT took over the Lodge, because they saw how useful someone with Bitch's experience and capability could be in keeping the Triad at bay, and they were right; Bitch only let refugees from the Triad's madness, few though those were, through the Rubblebelt, occasionally escorting them personally.

She still lives in the building, under the command center in a dark burrow with her wolves, though she has more burrows all around the 'Belt; barely capable of human interaction, only coming out for her nightly 'hunts' and occasional meeting with the other capes on the 'Belt, I have the feeling that most every other cape in the Lodge would rather she go find her death against the Darkspawn, if she wasn't the only thing keeping the druggies, kidnappers and murderers from spilling back into the 'Belt.

Fear, after all, is a powerful thing, and even Lung seems wary of messing with the Wildling, Bitch the Beastmaster.

I just felt sorry for her. So did Colin and Dragon. According to them, Bitch couldn't remember if she'd ever had a name or family, before the Archdemon rose. The wolves that came with her are the only family Bitch has ever known, and, according to Colin, she can barely speak enough to get any idea of what she's thinking, mostly communicating in growls and tongue clicks.

Personally, I haven't met the girl yet, though we're both (_probably_) Case 53's, and she does drift through my area occasionally; her scent seems familiar, somehow, tickling something in my dual memories… but I haven't been able to place it…

Several other capes call the Lodge home, mainly because they don't like the medication Northside's government tries to force on them, or because they're pariahs in other ways; it wasn't like the common man trusted Parahumans further than keeping the Darkspawn and It's creations at bay anymore.

There's Warp (Missy), who escaped the Merchant's clutches after they kidnapped her, but not before being injected with Venus; she manages with help from Timesnatch (Dennis), who (a little _too_) happily keeps her sporadic impulses and urges focused on his person whenever he's not managing the Console.

Sparta spends more time at the Lodge than at home, but I haven't spent enough time with the older girl to get an idea of what her family's like, beyond that they're what's left of the Brigade and that the pretty blonde flyer doesn't like talking about them.

Aegis doesn't live there, but he spends most of his week outside High School at the Lodge, as he's the appointed leader of the younger capes, though no-one really pays the position more than lip service, mostly because the well-mannered young man's more 'carrot' than 'stick' in his dealings with the Triad.

His personal philosophy boils down to: the Dock's residents have been led astray, and it's our job to bring them back to sanity; killing, in his eyes, should be a last resort.

It's also the only negative mark on his character, in my eyes. Certainly, some people who lived in the Docks were only trying to survive in this mad world, as were we all, but to be in the Triad itself?

No. If I see someone in gang colors and had the opportunity, they die. Carlos is the only one who gives the Triad mercy. Even Victoria doesn't hesitate, most of the time, and Carlos was on-again-off-again with her. One day, that chivalrous streak of his would bite him.

The others, Jester, Circus, Chariot, Phoenix, and Newter either make the daily commute to the Lodge when their shifts came up, or (in the case of Phoenix and Newter) flown in from Northside if the Triad starts flexing its muscles. Usually though, Dragon, Armsmaster, Bitch and the battalion of PRT Troopers holding the line under Field Commander Piggot's expert direction are sufficient for keeping the lawless psychos at bay.

But tonight is Friday night. Weekend parties are still a thing, and the Docks sound like they're in full swing.

The steady gunfire across the 'Belt, pleased squeals and moans in hidden alcoves, and distant, brief screams as Bitch hunts down kidnappers trying to slip past her vigilant guard; all of these sounds indicate all hands would be on deck for another bloody night in the Bay.

_'Good. I won't be bored, and can work off some of this frustration.'_ I certainly had enough to share around, between my physical trammels and social troubles!

Approaching what looks like an elevator door, its current guardian looks up from her phone and greets me with a neutral expression, "Hey, Stalker. Loud out there, huh?"

"You know how it is, Jester," I shrug at the girl in a red-black stitched fabric outfit that matched her namesake, complete with _bells_, sitting on a stool.

Brown hair hidden under a belled hat, blue eyes behind a clear-lensed Tinker-tech domino mask, cute face painted bone white with a black, sharp-toothed Cheshire grin across her cheeks, fifteen-year-old Madison Clements was one of the longest-tenured PRT-sponsored capes, having joined when she was only nine.

"Another night in the office, kicking Triad butt and taking names. Let me in?" I gesture at the door.

Her neutral expression doesn't falter when she quips flatly, "You're not gonna castrate anyone tonight, right?" she still takes out a keycard and twirls it between her fingers before throwing it at the wall above the reader; it falls through the slide perfectly before bouncing mid-air to land in Jester's lap, the door starting its slow opening procedure, internal servos whirring as the magnetic and hard locks disengage with soft buzzes and clanks.

Jester's power is vibrokinesis, or the ability to control vibrations in the space around her person; mostly, she just uses it to manipulate the paths of thrown projectiles or make someone's limbs cramp when they pass through a low-pressure point in the air, though she can also use it to weaken non-living material, nullify sound waves, or create auditory hallucinations through making sound… misbehave. Even though she's Manton-limited, Madison has the potential to become one of the strongest Shakers alive, right up there with Marquis, Labyrinth and Phoenix.

Too bad the unflappable, apathetic girl spends most of her downtime playing mobile games instead of training, much to Colin's constant frustration. The perks of being the Water Authority Director's daughter, I suppose.

I roll my eyes at the quip, but remember what Carlos said and deadpan, "My castration schedule seems to be clear, if memory serves, though I don't have my day-planner on me. Why? You know a rapist or three that could use an arrow through their groin?"

"Haha." She literally says that, 'haha', still without any inflection. "Nah. I just kill the rapists if I see them. Too bad I'm stuck on guard duty till tomorrow night. Hope they'll let me go out with Circus again, hit the Red Light District and fuck up Squealer's weekly dances…" the expression on Jester's face is rather wistful, and I can't blame her.

If someone wants to know what the Second Circle of Dante's Hell looks like, anyone in Brockton Bay would just point to constantly red-lit section of the Docks and the surrounding blocks. A hive of the worst humanity could afford, most women (and some young men) who went in there didn't go willingly… or come out the same as before…

As for Squealer's 'dances'…

I didn't want to think about it, honestly; seeing what goes on in the Buckin' Bordello (said with a grim face if you know what's good for you) personally, two weeks ago, was enough.

Still, I need allies if I'm going to clean this pit up, so I offer, "I could take a swing by there and see if I can bring you some ears and noses, maybe try to get a Venus out?" I know she'll probably say no, but it's the thought that counts, and Jester's nearly as ruthless as Bitch.

Predictably, Jester shakes her head, the bells on her hat jingling, and looks back at her phone's screen, "Nah. Not the same. Later, Stalker."

Ah, yes, the door's open, revealing the Lodge; feeling a little dejected at, once again, failing to make a connection with the young woman, I accept the casual dismissal with a wave of farewell and walk briskly into the PRT's forward command post, the Lodge proper.

It's not as sorry a sight as the building it inhabits; fluorescent lights illuminate the cracked, dirty floor and walls, a Tinker-tech holo-table (built and maintained by Armsmaster himself) dominating the center of the room. Currently, it showed a 3D map of the Rubblebelt and nearby Docks, blips illuminating last known locations of both allied and villainous Parahumans, swaths of color denoting the separations between gangs in Triad territory, all updated in real-time by the three suits Dragon assigned to the Bay: three MK-4 Nidhoggr mobile armors, outfitted with chain guns, guided ATS missile pods, multi-purpose grenade launchers, and a slew of other armaments and protections known only to the legendary Tinker working out of Newfoundland.

It really said something about the Triad, that even with all that firepower at the PRT's disposal, even Dragon was hesitant to try and take the Docks.

Squealer and Voltron's anti-air batteries, Lung, Kemuri, Oni Lee, Squealer, Skidmark, Mush, Drop, The Butcher… _Matriarch_ (all of my _hate_, all of it! Friggin' _bugs!_). Alone, each wouldn't put up even a moment's challenge against the Tinker that slew Leviathan; together, they'd held the line for half a decade.

Colin was looming over the map, his helmet on the table's edge, Panacea-modified blue eyes darting over the glowing display; his armor, fashioned to look rather draconic and colored a deep grey with white highlights, was edged with a soft red glow. Through collaborations with Dragon, Armsmaster's power armor and weapons were enhanced by Endbringer material, a commodity reserved only for the best of the best in the PRT.

Also, he needs a shave. That beard was getting out of hand.

Along one wall, to my left, is a bank of glowing screens which, as usual, were too bright for my inhuman vision to make out their displays clearly. To the redheaded youth in grey-black armor sitting in front of the bright panels I call, "You're gonna go blind if you keep the brightness up that high, Dennis."

"You're not my real mom, Taylia," the ginger immediately shoots back with a grin in his voice, not looking away from the Console, the scantily-clad blonde figure resting her head in his lap turning to look at me, a sultry, knowing grin on her unmasked, youthful face.

Missy.

I… I don't want to talk to her right now; just being in her vicinity, smelling the lewd scents that cling tight to her skin, my power gleefully processing the glow in her cheeks and the musky scent coming off Dennis, telling me the two teens likely had sex less than an hour ago...

I'll see if Colin can have Dragon drop off some supplies at the Brick House, the name I'd given my apartment building, around four in the morning, which is usually when I turn in for the night. If Dragon can't, I'll ask Warp. Later. Once my shift's over.

Walking up to the glowing table while repressing a shudder, my eyes flick over the territories in the Docks; Merchants (green) at the coast as usual, the ABB (red) a huge swath in the middle and west sides, and the Teeth (blue) in the south, with district borders and neutral 'trading routes' shown as yellow lines. In the westmost area was the Terminal, the old train station and the ruined neighborhoods surrounding it, which was overseen by a neutral faction, the Yardworkers (orange)... and a white marker was above the district?

Only the Yardworkers, a gang made up of former 'working girls' and deserters from both sides, and those they protected lived in the Terminal area, as the place is separated from the Docks by a large fissure running through the ground; little food, no electricity, plumbing, or gas, it's where the Triad throws those who'd been used up, whether through drugs or alcohol or prostitution or disease, sometimes all at once.

It's one of the worst places in the world to live, a place of hopelessness and silent death; of the Lodge capes, only Bitch and I ever go there.

I can't speak for the Beastmaster, but I don't much like the place. Too many rats, too much garbage.

For there to be a white marker… _'An unknown cape, in that place?' _Someone was either desperate or stupid…

"Shadow Stalker," Colin's deep voice shakes me from my musings. When our eyes meet, he jerks his head slightly to the right.

I suppress a sigh at the displeased look on his face, _'Time to face the music.'_ I follow my sparring partner (and part-time parental figure) into one of the dark rooms surrounding the command center, heeled boots making little sound as I walk.

A few cots and a mini-fridge placed against the walls, a pile of poker cards and soda bottles sitting on a low table in the room's center; focusing on my surroundings for a moment to ensure we're alone and won't be overheard, I hear Circus, three floors up, say, _"Nine-ball, center pocket."_

In the building next door, the muffled voice of a PRT Trooper, _"Copy. I'll get him if you don't."_

A beat of silence, broken by the snarling of one of Bitch's wolves in a collapsed house nearby.

_Bang._

_"Sunk it."_ Circus smugly confirms another kill, displacing and moving to a new spot as bullets start smacking into the walls of the Lodge, a mortar round exploding nearly at the edge of my hearing's range.

A smirk finds its way to my face, _'Good, the night's busy. I'll be able to distract myself easily, if things are heating up this fast!'_

But Colin's posture arrests my attention: he's folded his arms and is staring at me, leaning against the wall next to the mini-fridge, frowning slightly.

I relax my own posture, propping a hand on my hip and saying quietly, "You know Colin, it's odd that they don't complain about my stopping rapists in the Docks. Do it over here, though, and-"

"It's not the same thing, Taylia, and you _know it,_ young lady." Colin growls, cutting across me; I flinch and cringe a little.

Here stands the _only_ male I knew that I'm neither attracted to nor want to jump (mainly because he's taken), someone who helped me stay sane and get my mind in order after I crept out of the Brick House and ran into a skirmish between Dragon and Voltron, and he's _mad at me_; I can smell it, "No one gives you crap for dealing with gangbangers because those _fucks_ have kidnapped too many daughters, mothers and sisters for anyone in Northside to care for their well-being, but when you turn those skills of yours on the people you're supposed to _protect_-"

Yeah, _no_, "So I'm just supposed to stand by and _watch_ as one of the Militia _rape someone?!"_

"I'm not asking that, Taylia, nor would I _ever_ ask that, of you or anyone under my command."

Now both my hands are on my hips, "Then what are you saying, Colin?"

The frown on his face suddenly becomes a small smirk, "I'm saying, Shadow Stalker, that you should save your arrows for the Triad. If you see something like that amongst our own people, by all means stop it, but _without_ dismembering the perp. You have CQC skills that exceed anything the mainline PRT forces have, and Panacea's not available for fixing every little scrape that happens down here."

Colin's arms unfold and he starts walking towards me, posture unthreatening, as I realize just how much I've messed up, "Bane Piggot's not going to bring you in for what you did, or send you to the Wall, like Mayor Barnes wants. In fact, after she found out the truth of what _really _happened, she let Barnes have it."

He stops in front of me, looking down at me kindly, caringly, but not in a romantic way; like a father would to their wayward daughter… like Taylor's father would, before her mother died.

"I laid into him as well," Colin adds softly, maintaining eye contact, "Because I know you're not a villain. You're a young woman who can't stand by while others suffer, and you have the skills to make that suffering stop. Just… please, try not to spill anymore of Northside's blood, Taylia. They have enough to deal with."

I nod shakily, biting my lip in shame, "I… I know… and I won't. Carlos told me, a-about Piggot that is. And…" I smile a little, which I know he sees, even with the hood and mask hiding my face; those enhanced eyes give him night-vision that's _almost_ as good as mine, "Thanks. For sticking up for me, even though you're mad at me."

He pats my shoulder, gently, so as not to set off my sensitivity, which I am _very _thankful for, "I don't blame you either, Taylia, and I'm not mad at _you_; I blame the ass that did it, for forcing you to action. Think of this as a learning experience; everyone you've worked with over the past month has dealt with an incident like this at some point in their career, and no-one truly faults you for what you did. Hell, Sparta killed a Militia man when he tried copping a feel, but there were witnesses that time. My point is, you're young and inexperienced with the PR side of things, being a vigilante, and public opinion is a finicky thing at the best of times," Colin sighs, looking back at the holo-table with a sad smile, "…which these hardly are."

While he does have a point, that I am physically young, I should really know better, given the memories running through my head. I don't give such thoughts voice, instead clearing the lump in my throat gently and asking, "I'll… keep it in mind. No more arrows for Northside, keep it to punches and kicks. Is there anywhere you need me tonight?"

A female voice comes out of Colin's armor, Dragon's voice, "_Bitch has the eastern parts of the 'Belt covered this evening, Taylia. Circus, Sparta and Aegis are holding the center, but it looks like Spree's making things difficult for their efforts, so Phoenix is in reserve in case the line breaks; I haven't seen Hemorrhagia around… though, seeing as Chariot blew her leg off two weeks ago…"_

That _does_ raise a good question, "Where _is_ Chariot, by the way? I'd think he'd be in the middle of all this action," I look over the map as Colin and I arrive back at the table, but I couldn't see the young Tinker's gold marker anywhere.

Around the shaking of another artillery exchange, Colin informs me, "He's been ordered up to Newhaven for the week, helping Chevalier and Dragon with the new transports."

Ah. The Wall transports, for bringing supplies to the containment line around New York City. _'Figures Chariot would be eager to get on a project like that. Victoria said he was getting restless lately, too, last time I talked to her.'_

Nodding in understanding, my eyes drift over to the western 'Belt, not seeing anything immediately, beyond that white marker, "Nothing going on in my area?"

_"Mumfort Square's not exactly prime real estate, for either side,"_ piped up Dragon while Colin used the control panel at the table's edge to magnify the western parts of the Docks and Rubblebelt: Mumfort Square, Printer's Run and the Terminal, the latter of which showed the white marker I'd seen earlier.

A white marker signifies an unknown cape that has been observed fighting the Triad, and the marker being _above_ the map's surface meant Dragon doesn't know where they are, which means someone's lurking around near my turf. Interesting…

Dragon continues, explaining the white marker's presence, _"However, I _did_ see someone exhibiting a Shaker ability in the Printer's Run neighborhood this afternoon; they had a skirmish with some Merchants and Teeth, prompting Kemuri and Spree moving to investigate, but the unknown was gone by the time they showed up. I tracked them to the Terminal district, where they vanished; unfortunately,"_ she adds ruefully, _"I can't get closer to find out _exactly_ where they're holed up. Stupid anti-air batteries…" _

Colin smiles grimly, while I sigh; Dragon's hate for Squealer and Voltron's batteries was well-known. She'd nearly lost two suits to the things in the past, before I appeared.

Destroying the things is on the to-do list, but that mission was on the back-burner for the moment; too well-protected, too far into the Docks for anyone to hit without bringing the whole place down on their head.

I hum in thought, focusing on the holographic depiction of the Terminal: a bread-loaf shaped eight-story Art Deco-style building, partially-collapsed on one side, surrounded by twisted train tracks, fallen houses and rusting cars. The area was cracked and broken, the result of Kaiser taking the most of the metal out of the district's underground electric lines. I'd only gone there once, using the long-disused subway tunnels and shattered sewers to sneak in.

It wasn't one of my favorite places to go. There were rats. _Many_ rats.

Stealth was good and all, but rats carried diseases, and if there are enough in one place they can overwhelm even the strongest Brutes; on the bright side, the military barricades and watch-towers along the Green Mountains and Hudson Valley keep most of the Blight-spreaders from sneaking into New England.

Small mercies, but rats can still carry disease, and the Terminal isn't the most secure of districts.

_'Which means… either our mystery Shaker knows the area better than even _Dragon_, which is unlikely,' _I rub my chin in thought, looking at possible points of approach and retreat, already deciding to go invisible and use the rooftops and alleyways to sneak into the dark place, _'Or they're desperate... or this is a trap, a lure to bring me into the open.'_ Though there was plenty of cover in and around the Terminal, houses, rubble piles and the like, that didn't mean anything where Tinkers and Butcher were involved.

Additionally, the surface of the four-square-mile area is uneven, entire blocks lying at random angles, which would make a ground battle annoying. It would also give someone like Matriarch plenty of cover to hide her swarm, the bitch.

Speaking of which, I don't see the Teeth leader's marker anywhere, nor Matriarch's, "Any sign of Butcher?"

"No," Colin shakes his head negatively, gesturing south on the map, "She left early this morning for Boston; we contacted Sarah Livsey about it. Inconclusive." I nod curtly to show I understand Colin's grumpy summation of how much information was forthcoming; the Faerie Queen's pet Thinker was good, but without actually _seeing _what the Butcher was up to, she wouldn't be able to help much, especially from San Francisco.

Still, the absence of Butcher was good, which left… "Matriarch?"

_"In the Red Light District. Lung's keeping her close,"_ growls Dragon, sounding a little distracted and angry, which she explains to me and a now-frowning Colin, _"Colin, there's a large group of Darkspawn trying to cross Lake Placid. I have to go. Stay safe, Taylia,"_ she finishes warmly.

"Be careful, love," my father-figure whispers, the deep caring in his tone carrying easily to my ears, bringing a smile to my face.

_"Always,"_ a click of a microphone marks her departure, leaving me in the room with Colin, Missy and Dennis… who were quietly making out, the young Venus-touched halfway-sitting on her boyfriend's lap and already dripping with arousal.

_'Ugh, I better get out of here,'_ best not tempt fate, after all. To a worried-looking Colin, who's enlarged the map to display all of New England and the eastern parts of New York, I attempt encouragement, "She'll be fine, Colin. Dragon's faced worse than Darkspawn." While he nods distractedly, I roll my shoulders to limber up and add in a grinning voice, "Well, I'm heading out to the Terminal, see if I can find this Shaker. Oh," I almost forgot, "could you see if Dragon can drop off some supplies, if she finishes off those 'Spawn early enough that is? I'm almost out of food."

Cup ramen was good and all, but I'd prefer some bread and eggs to round out my morning. Staying in shape required more than empty calories, after all!

Colin nods again, less distracted this time, "I've made a note of it. If she can't, I'll bring the supplies myself at the end of this shift," then he sends a stern look my way, "The Shaker's power manifests as clouds of darkness; even Dragon's sensors couldn't pierce it, so assume your night vision won't either."

"I'll keep it in mind," I affirm with a swift nod as Missy lets out a little mewl of approval, Dennis' lips on her neck; as I turn to leave, studiously ignoring the mild moistness between my own legs, I snap at the pair, "Get a freaking room, you two!"

As I go back through the Lodge's door, Missy gives me a breathlessly cheery, "We're – _ah~! – in_ a room!" which Colin rebuts with long-suffering annoyance, "A _different_ room."

.

2

.

_Hips slapping together, wet squelching of quick, hard thrusts, thick arousal mingling with the dirty smells omnipresent in the air, "Ohh~, yes! H-Harder! Ah-ooh-ah~! Oh I – ah! – love how you fuck meee~!"_

_The quiet sizzle of cooking heroin, the grunts and heavy breathing of a junkie eager for his fix._

_"Mommy, I'm hungry…" whispers a little girl, a whore's daughter, the whore herself barely able to move after working all day. The little girl's stomach has been growling for over an hour, and though she's braved it, knowing her mother's exhausted, her hunger is slowly winning the battle._

_The wet crunching of a group of rats eating their way through a two-day old corpse, the rotting skin shivering like paper in the wind as the bottom-feeders feast._

These are only the most common of noises coming off the Terminal district, drifting up the church bell tower I'm crouched in to my powerful hearing.

Sporadic barrel-fires dot the dark gloom beneath me, along with the shadows of those that use them for heat, grouped close for protection and comfort. Conversation is quiet, despairing, but there's hope in some of their voices.

Even as the world dies, hope flickers like a candle.

Unlike the Docks proper, only a few girls walk the streets here, but they're not prostitutes; no, the prostitutes are in the alleys these deceptive girls guard religiously, weapons hidden under their long coats. The Yardworkers they call themselves, a minor gang of former whores and deserters from the Militia and PRT that does their best to keep those living in this decaying place safe from occasional raids by the Triad's unpowered support.

They also make sure those that are too addicted, to drugs or sex or both, stay alive, providing them with what food they can find, protection and… _work_ in exchange for a cut of their profits. On the other hand, all food and water are shared equally, with children getting priority. I don't judge this arrangement, either positively or negatively; my memories show how much worse an arrangement such as this could be, and none of these young girls and women are Venus-touched, which is a point for the Yardworkers in my book.

Anyway, it's not like Venus-touched get to retire, not that they'd _want to_.

Also, I was getting _annoyed_, both by the sounds of paid sex and the fruitlessness of my search for this unknown Shaker; four hours I've been up in this cold tower without so much as a suspicious shadow or odd sight to reward my vigilance. Mostly, I'd listened to the fireside conversations bemoaning the lack of food and fresh water in these parts; nothing about a mysterious Parahuman putting down roots.

_'Maybe the Shaker's sticking to daylight hours,'_ I muse while nibbling on a granola bar, a squeal of orgasm and the rustle of a book in an apartment two blocks away the least redundant sounds coming to my ears, _'Well, if they don't show in the next two hours, I'll call it a bust and go patrol the edge of this place, see if I can rob a gangbanger or twenty to make up for this…'_

Speaking of the edge and gangbangers… looks like three Teeth and a ABB ganger are setting up a mortar nest, on top of a building about a mile away from me. Tilting my head, I creep around the old and rusted bell I'm sharing this space with and look more closely at the distant factory they're camped on.

Broken windows, graffiti, trash piled up on the outside walls, even a roof access door; very aesthetic of the Docks. Just another run-down factory amongst run-down factories. Shading my eyes against the distant LED-shininess of Northside, I see that the four morons are aiming that artillery piece at the 'Belt, in the general direction of my home.

A brief chill wraps my bones, wondering if I've been found out, but I shake it off; the Triad regularly use Mumfort Square as target practice… or, if Bitch happens to be in the area, _heavy_ target practice. Not that they ever do much damage, what with all the hard metal choking the area, but that's beside the point.

If they knew where I lived, no doubt Lung would send a small army to chase me off… or drag me in.

The latter wasn't likely, I knew as I turned invisible and tensed my legs; Shalia's memories, beyond the horrors they imparted, were possessed of a valuable lesson.

_Don't. Get. Captured. _

Also, while I'm musing on this subject, _how in the hell_ did an entire race evolve to feel more comfortable moving on the balls of their feet than the heels? Or… that's what the same Dark Elf's memories said, which meant I could either make my boots high-heeled or get cramps in my feet from all the running around I do.

_'Complain about running around in hooker heels later, Taylia. Time to crack some skulls.'_

Down the side of the tower I go, before springing off; due to the uneven terrain about me, it takes five minutes for me to cross the district and dart to the shadows of the roof access door, landing silently not thirty feet from my prey.

Men. All four are _men_. Unwashed, musky with sweat and gunpowder, the old blood smell on the bone armor of the Teeth a juxtaposition to the scent of Venus-touched, a light strawberry-esque sweet smell, on the ABB ganger; despite their ragged appearance and vile odor, the four are being quiet, not really exchanging any conversation, though they've brought a case of beer, so maybe they're just waiting for things to quiet down… and there's drugs on them too, or my nose is the world's biggest liar.

A fanged grin splits my face; drugs, usually, means money or harder currency, like watches, rings, and chains. Loot, for those not in the know; both the Teeth and ABB take trophies from their victims, and, like the idiots they are, wear them into battle. Renewing my invisibility after loosening my daggers, I take a couple deep breaths, nock an arrow, and look around my cover.

Two of the Teeth are sighting the mortar, the ABB guy's checking the two cases of ammunition they've got; two packs of twenty shells, it looks like, and is that Voltron's sigil?

Five colored rectangles in a star formation, inside a white circle. That's Voltron all right!

I have to suppress a happy giggle at this; Dragon might throw in some _chocolate _if I can bring her some of Voltron's tech! She said if she can get her hands on some of his ammunition, she'll be able to invent countermeasures to upgrade her suits with, which would be good for everyone at the Lodge.

Dragon being able to do strafing runs over the Docks without having to fear the AA-batteries? That would give everyone more chances for downtime; for me, this means I could focus on some of the more time-consuming projects Shalia's memories have given me, things that will give me a better edge against the Darkspawn.

For Colin? Dragon and I would probably force the silly man to get a good night's sleep.

The remaining Teeth ganger's looking bored from his lookout point, half-under a blanket and facing the Terminal, an open bottle of beer (unlabeled, so it's either piss-weak nasty crap like all mass-produced human beer, or hideously-powerful nasty crap that got brewed in someone's filthy bathroom) next to his hand.

Preparing my grip on the nocked arrow, I decide to take the ABB guy first; Butcher's not in town, and none of these jerks are Merchants, so if I take down their only contact to Lung, the Teeth will probably try to take me in close combat, as is their wont. Which is stupidity of the highest order, attacking a Dark Elf in close combat _at night_.

I've lined up my shot with ABB guy's torso, and am just thinking, _'Only 10 yards. Thanks for the swag, morons!'_

Then one of the Teeth, the one watching the Terminal as a matter of fact, gets the contents of his skull evacuated all over his fellows; from the way his brother-in-arms gasps and grabs his thigh, the cause of death was either a random act of God or demon, or someone in the Terminal's one hell of a shot!

I'm so surprised I almost don't pin the ABB jerk, who looks up in shock at all the blood, bone and brain that's all over him and his fellows; then my arrow slams into his side, a few inches below the armpit, shocking him so badly he keels over dead.

The third bastard doesn't know where to look: at the dead Asian, the dead lookout, or his buddy that just collapsed to the floor screaming.

Right as a high-pitched whistle reaches my ears, a split-second before his dirty, mustached face gets warped, a geyser of blood and brain exiting stage right, courtesy of Mr. or Ms. Nice-Shot.

By then I'm all-but on legshot guy, having run forward low and fast after quickly stowing my bow, my mythril dagger buried up to the hilt under his ear, silencing his screaming before it can attract undue attention.

_'Damn, someone's got a dead-eye!'_ think I with a gleeful grin, but I don't rise; that might get my head blown off. This sniper's got talent, but trigger-happiness is a thing, and I'm not taking chances with someone _this_ good.

Instead, I raise a two fingers in a 'V' sign, hoping the mystery sniper gets the hint (I'm not an enemy, please don't shoot me!), before sweeping my vision across the distant batteries and towers in the Triad's territory.

It doesn't _look_ like any snipers are pointed my way, but that can change, so I swiftly liberate what valuables our departed victims possess-

-two watches, six gold chains, three rings, about $300 in cash (worthless, unless you're in Northside or certain parts of the Docks), a few bags of cannabis, and an 8-ball of coke-

-snatch up the ammo from both boxes, put the rounds in a handy duffle that's lying around for some reason, slash my knife through the mortar's barrel to disable it (because I'm not lugging that unwieldly thing all the way back to the Lodge), and book it back to the Terminal district, keeping my invisibility off until I arrive near a small courtyard, roughly in the middle of the place.

The sniper doesn't shoot me. _'Maybe they're not as good at hitting a moving target?'_ As I'm behind cover now, lurking in an empty attic… well, I hope they come out of their nest so I can have a chat with them, _'Like, wow, it's not every day I meet someone can make a shot in the dark like that, let alone _twice_… I mean, unless you're me. Or Circus. Or Chariot… Or Dragon…'_

Shaking my head, I put down the mortar rounds and look down at the barrel fire; five people are gathered about it, three men, two women, all are wearing worn, old clothes, and have the scent of homelessness and despair hanging about them. The conversation they were having briefly breaks off when a board creaks under one of the explosive cases.

"Ya hear that?" one of the men asks, the raspy sound of his voice and breathing evidencing long experience with tobacco smoke, the scent clinging to his dirty self.

"Hear what?" a woman snaps, sounding cold and annoyed; not a whore, she doesn't smell right. One of the Yardworkers maybe, "All I heard was Robin's bitching."

Around a growl, the other woman, _definitely _a whore, responds bitingly, "Fuck you, Angie. It's not like money even means anything, these days." She sucks on a cigarette like her life depends on it. I can't even guess her age beneath all the dirt. She could be 20, or maybe 35.

"You might be right, but tha' don't mean we should trade with the fuckin' Triad," says another man, blowing on his hands; something on him smells like rotting meat, likely some sickness, "Bastards would soon as take _you_ as payment fo' ya shit, rather than whatever garbage ye've managed to dig outta the 'Belt."

Then, right before the whore can give them any response, other than an angry 'fuck you', a deep, cold voice rings through the small group, "**Robin. Shut up.**"

All five of them jump in surprise, Angie whispering, _"Sunnuva bitch!"_

Then I see… darkness. Black, oily darkness creeps into the small clearing, rippling over the walls like tendrils; so dark, even _my_ eyes can't see what's inside it. It keeps to the shadows, jumping from one to the other, rippling over every surface, a couple wisps of the oily smoke caressing the flaming barrel and its residents. One of the girls, Angie I suppose, has an MP5 drawn, but is visibly relaxing as she looks at something I can't see from my vantage point, a hole in the attic's wall, to the west.

Around a gulp, the gun-toting Yardworker greets the darkness nervously, "Evenin', Grim. Everything all right?"

Silence is her answer, save the crackling of the barrel, my pounding heart, and the distant explosions near the middle 'Belt.

Then, without warning, _I'm blind! I can't hear! I can't **see**!_ Cold darkness envelops me, cutting off all my senses! I can't even feel the floor!

As suddenly as it appears, it disappears, followed by the deep voice of this 'Grim' calling, "**I know you're up there. Come down, and keep your hands where I can see them.**" Angie whispers urgently at the other fireside loiterers, who back away quickly.

On one hand, huzzah! I've found the Shaker!

One the other hand… _'I didn't hear or smell anyone approach! What kind of power cuts off all the senses?!'_ After taking a couple deep breaths to steady myself, and try to get a bead on where _exactly_ this guy is (no dice, beyond a large swath of 'emptiness' about fifteen yards away to my left), I leap through a hole in the roof, do a front flip off its edge, and land upright, feet together with my hands raised in surrender, near the fire.

The 'emptiness' is a wall of shadowy **dark**, so black it puts the dark of my eyes to shame. Light seems to just _stop_ at its edge, where it blocks the view of the street beyond. What senses are available to me tell me that the darkness is covering everything in this space between two ruined houses, 'empty' spots appearing in both scent and sound wherever its seeking tendrils go, whether it's rotted wood or the smell of the swiftly backing away residents of this place, though I do hear the MP5 Angie's toting give a _click_ as she disengages the safety.

I pay her no heed; I've found the Shaker, apparently, and _boy_ are they a scary customer! _'My entire repertoire of skills requires all my senses being clear for full effectiveness, and this guy can negate them! I better be polite here, offending them could prove fatal…'_

Swallowing my fear and doubt, I say to the darkness in as casual a voice I can manage, "Good evening, ah, Grim, was it?"

"**Hm.**" The dark grunts… or someone grunts from the dark… or whatever, "**From the purple eyes and dark cloak, plus the arrow you killed that ABB guy with,**" _'Wait, _he's_ the shooter?!'_ "**I'm guessing you must be Shadow Stalker, that new villain who maims or kills whoever she pleases.**"

Oh, for the love of – "Don't believe everything you hear on the radio," I reply, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "I got a… a little _rough_ with one of the Militia guys. He was trying to rape some girl, and, well," I shrug, keeping my hands up and hoping no-one says anything about the armor, like Chariot did the first time we met, "I don't really _appreciate _that type of behavior, no matter the side."

Silence fell again, breaking its spine when Angie piped up, voice a little shaky, "She ain't killed any of ours, Grim. So long as she _keeps it that way_," the threat in her tone was clear, as was the barely audible clink of her jerking that SMG in my direction, "I think ol' Gloria'll be fine givin' her a pass."

The black wall didn't reply, beyond a few wisps of oily smoke drifting off it, for a long moment…

Suddenly, it shrank back into itself, revealing a broken chain-link fence, around which was walking a tall figure, invisible to my senses still, as it was wrapped in that same darkness; it, or maybe _he_, given the figure's general shape and gait, gave off no scent, made no sound as the shadows wrapped about his being whorled around his feet and went before him.

Grim, _presumably, _walked into the clearing through a gap in the fence, the suggestion of a tactical shotgun held in his arms arresting my attention before my gaze shot to where his face should be; the dark smoke was formed into a grinning skull. From the brief glimpses and smells I received, the skull was a customized gas mask/goggle combination, probably from a SWAT cache or scavenged from old PRT gear.

Oh, and Grim here was _definitely_ male. _'Great. I go looking for that Shaker, hoping they're another girl, and I get a tall… probably beefy _guy_ instead. Just my luck.'_ On the bright side, I couldn't smell most of their body, so I couldn't get a good read on what they were feeling or what they'd been doing.

Beyond the obvious, anyway. "Yeah, um, I'm Shadow Stalker," I pause a moment, mostly to kick myself for sounding all high-pitched and stupid, then go with casually drawled, "Real nice shooting back there. I don't think I'd have been able to do _as_ good, even though I'm a fairly good shot-"

Grim ignores my rambling, _thank god_, "**What are you doing here?**"

Switching gears, I attempt the pitch I'd been planning while crouched in that stupid bell-tower, "Oh. Well, I patrol these parts sometimes. Printer's Run, Old Town, and the west parts of the 'Belt. Like around here. Anyway," I go on when he shifts a little, which I _think_ means annoyance, "imagine my surprise when I go into the Lodge and hear a certain _Dragon _tell me a tale about a Shaker tussling with the Triad before vanishing from her sight," and I give a little laugh, which I don't really feel. Grim here hasn't reacted much to my speech, just… staring at me. No response.

A little unnerved, I go on, though with more uncertainty than before, "So, um, as this area's not so well patrolled by the PRT kids, I volunteered to check it out," I shrug again, more to keep my muscles from cramping because keeping my hands up is getting _uncomfortable_, "Even if nothing came up, I figured this was as good a starting point as any for knocking down a few patrolling gangers, scrape up some loot for trade. Oh! Um, did you want your share, or…?" I mean, it's only proper!

After a brief pause, Grim replies, still in that creepy voice of his, "**What did they have? Oh, and Angie? Shoot her if she draws a weapon.**" Then he walks towards me, slowly…

While I gape at him, a _little_ insulted. I'm being polite and everything! I mean, sure, we're in the Docks, so paranoia's all well and good, but _come on!_

Still, I carefully take out the watches and chains; I'm keeping the rings to myself, partly because Colin might want the gemstones, but the drugs come out. Even at five paces, I can't smell or hear Grim… though there _is_ the slight smell of cigar smoke about him. An older person, maybe?

I clear my throat once all the items I've brought out are put on a crate next to the broken house I was just hiding in, Grim looking over one of the watches, "So… a watch each, we split the chains… you can keep the coke, but I'd like two of those weed bags for myself."

The skull helm jerks up a little, "**You smoke?**"

Shrugging, I decide there's no use denying it, "A one-hitter every now and again after dinner," I also notice the whore looking greedily at the spread, the small group having re-gathered at their fire, Angie keeping an eye (and a gun barrel) trained on me, "You? I can smell the cigar smoke," is my mildly teasing addition, out of my mouth before I can stop it.

_'Don't flirt with the cape! Don't flirt with the cape! Taylia! DON'T FLIRT WITH THE SCARY SHAKER YOU **JUST MET**!'_

"**Eh. When I can. Didn't know your sense of smell was that good,**" is Grim's non-committal and observant reply, taking his cut of the loot, tossing the 8-ball to Angie, who pockets it; the black smoke hides just where Grim puts the stuff, but then he asks, quietly yet just as menacing, "**Now, Shadow Stalker… Where'd you hide the ammo?**"

Damn. I look into that skull helm of his and jerk my head up and to my left, at the house I'd left the cases in, and whisper, "They're up in the attic. Two cases' worth of mortar rounds. Voltron's tech, looks like," he stiffens a little, in surprise I suppose; it's hard to tell without being able to smell him!

I go with my gut and quickly add, "I'm planning on giving it all to Dragon and Armsmaster. Got any problem with that?" I fold my arms over my chest, hoping Grim lets this one go.

"**No. Just get it out of _here_,**" he hisses, backing away from me slightly, "**The little shit might've put trackers in the things.**"

I laugh softly at that, remembering a story Circus told me, "Nah, he doesn't put trackers or self-destructs in his stuff. He can't."

"**How do you know?**"

"Because Circus has one of those cycle rifles he made, a… year back, I think? Armsmaster rebuilt it so she could use it. No trackers or anything. Guy's a disgrace to Tinkers." I stop rambling before I get away from myself; luckily, Grim doesn't seem to notice.

He tilts his head, then nods, apparently remembering, "**Oh. Yeah, I remember those. Nasty things.**"

I nod back, then… well, in for a penny, "Before I hare off, Grim… I hear what goes on wherever I go," I wave a hand at the side of my head, "Really good hearing and whatnot."

"**So what?**" is Grim's gruff response.

"_So_, Grim," I explain, propping a hand on my hip, "you've got hungry people here, and it looks like they could use clothes and medicine, too. I'm not saying you should join the PRT," I add when he shifts in discomfort, "hell, I'm just an Affiliate; I work alone, mostly. But I've got an in with Dragon and Armsmaster, and…" here goes nothing, "… I-I don't live, uh, too far away from here. I'm out on the Belt, so the Triad never sees me come or go. I can be _very_ sneaky, as you've found out this evening," he nods slowly, assenting my point.

"You helped with that mortar team, and you didn't shoot me on sight, and it looks like you've got a good handle on things around here, so… if you need some supplies smuggled in, food, medicine, clothes or whatever, I'm your girl. Just tell me what your people need and I can bring it within two days, four at most."

_'Also, **please** don't take that 'I'm your girl' bit the wrong way!' _I think in horror, realizing what that sounded like. I mean, sure, I made the proposal sound nonchalant, like it's no big deal, an everyday thing… but let's get something straight, here.

I live alone, am a closet nymphomaniac, and Grim is an inch taller than me and about half a foot wider about the shoulders. From the look of things, he's bristling with weapons, no doubt knows how to use them all, and wouldn't be too hard on the eyes, probably…

_'So… beefy, tall guy, probably has slabs of muscle to lug all those guns around,'_ while Grim drums his fingers on the shotgun, thinking over my proposal, I look at his other visible weapons: two big pistols at his hips, a revolver in each boot, and the stocks of two rifles, one assault, the other… probably a sniper rifle, but the darkness hides it. The rest of his gear looks like riot gear, or repurposed PRT agent kit from before the Wrath.

_'Muscles, tallness, gruff and dark… damnit, that's most of Taylor's buttons pushed right there! Silly human, why couldn't you have been less shallow?!'_ ignoring the itch forming around my nether regions, I examine Shalia's (pre-slavery) preferences, _'Clearly he's a decent warrior, and from the rapport between him and the others here, Grim does his best to help those around him. He's prepared, ruthless in his protection…'_

The pad on my groin was getting heavier, the tingling itch spreading to other parts of my body, though I keep my breathing even as I think in despair, _'Aaand that's most of Shalia's buttons, too. DAMNIT! Why couldn't you have been a girl, Grim, whyyyy?!'_

"**Alright,**" oh, he's agreeing?! On Grim goes, explaining, though his oddly echoing voice sounds tired, "**I'm not gonna lie, we need all the help we can get… but what can we do? The Militia shoots at anyone trying to cross into their little paradise,**" if he wasn't wearing that helmet, I wouldn't be surprised if Grim spat at the last, "**and… well, the _Triad_.**"

Wow. Even _Missy_ didn't sound so hateful when talking about the GT, and they _Venus-ed her!_ Grim here must have _some_ beef with them.

Unsurprising, on the whole. We _are_ in the Docks, after all, and not everyone gets along, here.

Wellaway, I agreed on those points, "Mayor Barnes is a jerk, to put it lightly," over by the fire, one of the guys supplies _'Cucky shitpusher'_ to the humming agreements of all and sundry, myself excluded. "He's got no say in the supply runs, though, that's Piggot's domain. Four days, most, I'll have something for you."

Grim nods in understanding, then, after he writes down a list of things the people around here need on a pad and hands it over, I'm preparing to bid farewell and leap back up into the attic to collect the mortar rounds…

"**You… don't want anything in return? For the supplies?**" he adds when I tilt my head in confusion.

Uh.

Oh. Ah.

Um. Err. Ahem.

Lurid, decadent fantasies wheel through my head without prompting, so vivid and detailed they cause small spots to spark across my vision, brought by the… _sensations_ they stimulate.

Have I mentioned the nymphomania? Should I mention it to Grim? Big, strong Grim?

No, bad idea. He'll get the wrong idea, being a man and all.

_'Think, Taylia, think! What can you ask for that doesn't have to do with wild, steamy, candlelit sex on rose petals with a jar of chilled massage oil?!'_ That… doesn't sound so bad, actually – NO!

I mean, sure, it _sounds_ nice in my head, but… he'd get freaked out by my sensitivity! And-and I probably know more about sex than anyone alive; even though I'm a virgin, he'd be thrown off by my encyclopedic knowledge of how to… _preform…_ in moments! I'd ruin him for other women, and his stamina would be shattered by what I'd end up doing to him! No sex!

But, if not something personal, then what?

Wait, the Rules. This is a personal pact between two capes…

Which means, according to custom, we'll have to unmask to each other! Crap!

How to make this work? How? I need a success story to bring to the Lodge, so I can walk around in Northside once more! They have _real cherries_ there!

What? Cherries are awesome. Sure, they're around three dollars or trade each, but _cherries!_

Hmm, how to do this… Oh! Yeah, that might work, "Ah, how about…" make it look natural, Taylia, don't give away the perverted thoughts!

I look at Grim askance, purple eyes meeting his skull helm, "…First, Bitch and I will have free reign to patrol around here; we're both discreet, so the Triad won't know we're here unless they do something stupid, like attack you," Grim nods agreeably.

Right, the important bit's settled… now, just to clear things up…

"Uh… do you know about the Rules?"

His head tilts slightly, tone dismissive in his reply, "**You mean those things no-one's followed for _years?_**"

"Nah," I wave a hand, "There's a different set of Rules, for between Parahumans who enter into alliance." Grim nods warily, so I explain around a huff, "It boils down to not attacking on sight, and, as a sign of mutual trust, unmasking to one another once the alliance is completed. That's all I'm asking here: Bitch doesn't have a secret identity, but I do, and there's more to working with both of us than masks."

The Shaker before me hums thoughtfully, then grinds out, "**You get those supplies here, help these people, and… I'll think about it. There's more to me than a mask as well, Stalker,**" he adds when I bristle slightly, because that's kind of _rude_, "**and… well, your reputation precedes you, no offense. I need to know you're more than empty promises.**"

I don't say anything, at first; I don't want to bite his head off in anger. _'I'll show you empty promises, you… you… grrr.'_

Resolving to speak with Colin about this the _second_ I return to the Lodge, I nod curtly and manage to bite out in a tight voice, "Very well. I'll see you, in four days or less, at… the Terminal Hub Station, you know, the Metro one?" he nods, "Good evening, Grim."

I don't wish him good luck as I leap into the air, collect the duffle of explosives, turn invisible and dart back toward the 'Belt, moving for the Lodge as fast as I can. Pushing so many of my buttons, then being a rude… ARGH!

Why do all the nice-looking guys have to be such _jerks?!_


End file.
